


for you i would happily drown

by starlight_sugar



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Episode: s03e06 Motel California
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-11
Updated: 2013-07-11
Packaged: 2017-12-19 03:31:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/878913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starlight_sugar/pseuds/starlight_sugar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>3x06 coda. "I want you to imagine you know I'm in trouble. Really bad trouble, like, could die at any given moment, that kind of trouble. And you come and find me, and you realize can get me out of that trouble. Would you?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	for you i would happily drown

**Author's Note:**

> contains discussion of suicide slightly beyond canon. title is from "if there was no you" by brandi carlile.

Stiles falls asleep on Scott's shoulder, somewhere around Bakersville. Allison is dozing against the window, and Lydia doesn't look too awake, either.

Scott can't sleep.

At first, he thinks it must be a werewolf thing, that somehow his body is supplying him with more adrenaline or something. It almost makes sense, until he glances over his shoulder and sees Isaac and Boyd, both fast asleep and curled up against each other. Even Ethan is slumped against the window - although, Scott figures, that could also be to avoid the furtive glances that Danny shoots him every other minute.

So it's not a werewolf thing, and it's not like he doesn't try to sleep, either. Scott is tired, and that's a massive understatement. He feels like he ran a marathon, twice, barefoot, uphill. And they didn't even have a meet.

He knows that's not really what the problem is. He knows exactly why he can't sleep. He knows that he'll have nightmares, about dripping in gasoline, about not getting out of the way fast enough, about the way Stiles's face would've looked if Scott had dropped the flare and lit them both up.

And he wanted to. God, he'd wanted nothing more than to just say okay and take them down together, get away from werewolves and girlfriends and every other little thing buzzing around him. He wanted to. He almost had.

Scott blinks, once, twice, hard. Stiles had insisted that he take a shower before they got on the bus, citing the smell of gasoline in such a small place was bound to drive them all insane. Scott had dutifully complied, not in the least because he knew that the real problem was the memories now associated with the smell. He can still feel it on his skin, though, in his hair, dripping into his eyes. If he closes his eyes, he can feel the weight of the flare in his hand again-

He doesn't close his eyes.

Scott looks out the window, trying desperately to focus on what he sees instead of what he remembers. It's futile, and he knows it, but he figures that if he watches the trees blur enough, then maybe everything behind his eyes will blur, too. He taps his fingers on the bus seat, cracks his wrist, rolls his ankles in circles. He stops moving after Stiles fidgets in his sleep - if anyone deserves to sleep undisturbed, it's Stiles. It'd be pretty shitty of Scott to almost kill them both and then not even let him sleep.

He tries to think about anything else - vocabulary words, that play they're reading in Ms. Blake's class, the darach, anything - but it's useless. It's truly useless, because it only takes one flicker in his focus and he's thinking about Stiles.

More specifically, he's thinking: Would Stiles have actually died for me?

Because it sure seems so, to Scott. It seems like if Scott had dropped the flare, Stiles would've smiled as he did it. It seems like Stiles would have not only died, but died gladly, and that scares the hell out of Scott. And not just died for Scott, but died with Scott, died because of Scott - it's almost too much to think about. He forces himself to take a deep breath because the thought is dizzying in its horror. He refuses to have a panic attack in the middle of the bus, mostly because he shudders to think how Finstock would react. He probably wouldn't know how to react.

"You're thinking really loudly," Stiles grumbles. It takes all of Scott's self-control not to jump in surprise; Stiles is still on his shoulder. He hasn't moved; Scott hadn't even noticed that he'd woken up. "What's up?"

Scott opens his mouth, but he can't make himself say what he's thinking. He can't watch Stiles realize that he made the wrong choice for a best friend, that Scott's not really worth dying for. He closes his mouth.

"If I have to sit up and glare it out of you, I'm going to be pissed." Stiles rolls around a little so he's looking up at Scott, still on his shoulder. "You can tell me, come on."

"It's not-" Scott stops, not sure where he was going, but forces himself to keep going. "It's just that - last night, would you really have… y'know?"

Slowly, Stiles's face falls into a serious expression. He sits up straight, and Scott braces himself for the no he's inevitably about to hear.

"Scott," Stiles says, quiet and patient. "I want you to imagine something."

"Uh," Scott says. "Okay?"

"I want you to imagine you know I'm in trouble. Really bad trouble, like, could die at any given moment, that kind of trouble. And you come and find me, and you realize can get me out of that trouble. Would you?"

"Of course," Scott answers immediately, almost offended that Stiles had to ask. They've been getting each other out of trouble for years.

"Now imagine that this trouble is me standing on top of a cliff, getting ready to jump. Would you try to talk me out of it?"

Scott can't even make himself answer. He's busy envisioning this, imagining what he would do if Stiles wanted to kill himself. It's the sickest feeling in the world, and it almost knocks him over with how much he hates the idea.

"And now," Stiles continues, almost sympathetically, "imagine that your choices were watching me jump or grabbing my hand and going over the edge with me. Do you let me go, or do you come with me?"

Scott forces himself to open his mouth, but there are no words. He can't, just can't speak. There's no choice, no second thought. It's not even a question in his mind, and he knows that it wouldn't be a choice for Stiles, either.

"Jump," he says at last.

Stiles's face softens. "But do you think I'd be able to take you with me? You couldn't, last night."

"Oh my God," Scott manages. He almost feels physically ill. "Is this what it was like for you last night? Except real?"

"Probably. I'm kind of used to you doing stupid things by now, but this was - worse." He shrugs, swallows hard. "I know you weren't in your right mind, but it still scared the shit out of me to see you like that."

"I'm sorry," Scott says numbly. He hadn't realized, not really, not viscerally, exactly what last night must've been like. "Oh, my God, I can't-" He runs a hand down his face, trying to hide how suddenly, fiercely ashamed he is.

"Scott. Scott, hey." Stiles grabs Scott's hand and pulls it away, keeps a grip on his wrist. "Listen, I know you weren't stable last night. I get it, it's all right, it wasn't your fault. And don't try to say you could've stopped it, because I've been wolfsbaned before too, and I couldn't have stopped it then."

"Wolfsbaned?" Scott repeats without thinking.

Stiles's eyes narrow.

"I mean, I get what you're saying there, I do," Scott adds earnestly. "I just didn't know we had a word for that."

"I almost feel like you missed the point," Stiles says slowly, "but at the same time, if you had, you'd probably still be wallowing in your own gloom and doom. Can I consider my point made?"

"Mostly," Scott admits. He knows that it's going to take a while to stop feeling guilty over this, but he also knows that he's forgiven. Which, although it doesn't change anything he did, makes him feel… absolved.

Stiles nods, like he understands exactly what Scott means by that. "Then I'm going back to sleep," he says decidedly, let's Scott's wrist go, and flops back on Scott's shoulder, instantly boneless. "You should too, you look like shit," he adds.

"It's been a long day," Scott protests, but his eyes are already drooping at the thought of sleep. "And I look better than I feel."

"Then you have more problems than we thought, my friend," Stiles mumbles. Scott smiles as he closes his eyes.


End file.
